Part 8 (1/2)

”It may be soon or it may, as men reckon time, be long; but sooner or later, inevitably, the Lord will come and deliver the world from its present troubles. And woe unto them who are called, not to the Supper of the Lamb, but to the Supper of the Great G.o.d. They will realise then, but too late, that G.o.d is a G.o.d of Wrath as well as a G.o.d of Forgiveness. The G.o.d who sent bears to devour the mockers of Elisha, the G.o.d who smote the Egyptians for their stubborn wickedness, will a.s.suredly smite them too, unless they make haste to repent. But perhaps it is already too late. Who knows but that to-morrow, in a moment even, Christ may be upon us unawares, like a thief? In a little while, who knows? The angel standing in the sun may be summoning the ravens and vultures from their crannies in the rocks to feed upon the putrefying flesh of the millions of unrighteous whom G.o.d's wrath has destroyed. Be ready, then; the coming of the Lord is at hand. May it be for all of you an object of hope, not a moment to look forward to with terror and trembling.”

Mr. Bodiham closed the little pamphlet and leaned back in his chair. The argument was sound, absolutely compelling; and yet--it was four years since he had preached that sermon; four years, and England was at peace, the sun shone, the people of Crome were as wicked and indifferent as ever--more so, indeed, if that were possible. If only he could understand, if the heavens would but make a sign! But his questionings remained unanswered. Seated there in his brown varnished chair under the Ruskinian window, he could have screamed aloud. He gripped the arms of his chair--gripping, gripping for control. The knuckles of his hands whitened; he bit his lip. In a few seconds he was able to relax the tension; he began to rebuke himself for his rebellious impatience.

Four years, he reflected; what were four years, after all? It must inevitably take a long time for Armageddon to ripen to yeast itself up.

The episode of 1914 had been a preliminary skirmish. And as for the war having come to an end--why, that, of course, was illusory. It was still going on, smouldering away in Silesia, in Ireland, in Anatolia; the discontent in Egypt and India was preparing the way, perhaps, for a great extension of the slaughter among the heathen peoples. The Chinese boycott of j.a.pan, and the rivalries of that country and America in the Pacific, might be breeding a great new war in the East. The prospect, Mr. Bodiham tried to a.s.sure himself, was hopeful; the real, the genuine Armageddon might soon begin, and then, like a thief in the night...But, in spite of all his comfortable reasoning, he remained unhappy, dissatisfied. Four years ago he had been so confident; G.o.d's intention seemed then so plain. And now? Now, he did well to be angry. And now he suffered too.

Sudden and silent as a phantom Mrs. Bodiham appeared, gliding noiselessly across the room. Above her black dress her face was pale with an opaque whiteness, her eyes were pale as water in a gla.s.s, and her strawy hair was almost colourless. She held a large envelope in her hand.

”This came for you by the post,” she said softly.

The envelope was unsealed. Mechanically Mr. Bodiham tore it open.

It contained a pamphlet, larger than his own and more elegant in appearance. ”The House of Sheeny, Clerical Outfitters, Birmingham.” He turned over the pages. The catalogue was tastefully and ecclesiastically printed in antique characters with illuminated Gothic initials. Red marginal lines, crossed at the corners after the manner of an Oxford picture frame, enclosed each page of type, little red crosses took the place of full stops. Mr. Bodiham turned the pages.

”Soutane in best black merino. Ready to wear; in all sizes. Clerical frock coats. From nine guineas. A dressy garment, tailored by our own experienced ecclesiastical cutters.”

Half-tone ill.u.s.trations represented young curates, some dapper, some Rugbeian and muscular, some with ascetic faces and large ecstatic eyes, dressed in jackets, in frock-coats, in surplices, in clerical evening dress, in black Norfolk suitings.

”A large a.s.sortment of chasubles.

”Rope girdles.

”Sheeny's Special Skirt Ca.s.socks. Tied by a string about the waist...When worn under a surplice presents an appearance indistinguishable from that of a complete ca.s.sock...Recommended for summer wear and hot climates.”

With a gesture of horror and disgust Mr. Bodiham threw the catalogue into the waste-paper basket. Mrs. Bodiham looked at him; her pale, glaucous eyes reflected his action without comment.

”The village,” she said in her quiet voice, ”the village grows worse and worse every day.”

”What has happened now?” asked Mr. Bodiham, feeling suddenly very weary.

”I'll tell you.” She pulled up a brown varnished chair and sat down. In the village of Crome, it seemed, Sodom and Gomorrah had come to a second birth.

CHAPTER X.

Denis did not dance, but when ragtime came squirting out of the pianola in gushes of treacle and hot perfume, in jets of Bengal light, then things began to dance inside him. Little black n.i.g.g.e.r corpuscles jigged and drummed in his arteries. He became a cage of movement, a walking palais de danse. It was very uncomfortable, like the preliminary symptoms of a disease. He sat in one of the window-seats, glumly pretending to read.

At the pianola, Henry Wimbush, smoking a long cigar through a tunnelled pillar of amber, trod out the shattering dance music with serene patience. Locked together, Gombauld and Anne moved with a harmoniousness that made them seem a single creature, two-headed and four-legged. Mr.

Scogan, solemnly buffoonish, shuffled round the room with Mary. Jenny sat in the shadow behind the piano, scribbling, so it seemed, in a big red notebook. In arm-chairs by the fireplace, Priscilla and Mr.

Barbecue-Smith discussed higher things, without, apparently, being disturbed by the noise on the Lower Plane.

”Optimism,” said Mr. Barbecue-Smith with a tone of finality, speaking through strains of the ”Wild, Wild Women”--”optimism is the opening out of the soul towards the light; it is an expansion towards and into G.o.d, it is a h-piritual self-unification with the Infinite.”

”How true!” sighed Priscilla, nodding the baleful splendours of her coiffure.

”Pessimism, on the other hand, is the contraction of the soul towards darkness; it is a focusing of the self upon a point in the Lower Plane; it is a h-piritual slavery to mere facts; to gross physical phenomena.”

”They're making a wild man of me.” The refrain sang itself over in Denis's mind. Yes, they were; d.a.m.n them! A wild man, but not wild enough; that was the trouble. Wild inside; raging, writhing--yes, ”writhing” was the word, writhing with desire. But outwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly--baa, baa, baa.